Just A Bit
by Juliette Stark-Barton
Summary: I need to see the answers, the answers of who this Kiku is, who this Japan is, who they all are, it hurts too much and before he even knows it, he has the knife in his hand is creating all sorts of wonderful artworks with the pure white canvas that is -


If you've ever seen him, you'd think he's the most content person in the world. And why shouldn't he be?

He's got everything.

Friends.

A wonderful family.

Tradition.

He's got everything.

Everything normal.

He is normal. He likes to believe so. He has every right to believe so.

So why does he feel so empty?

So hollow?

So _lonely?_

It hasn't always been this way. He remembers now. It used to be okay - it used to be fine, always the same.

Now it's different.

Now it's never okay. And when it is - well, that's a rare case, but when it is, he doesn't even get the chance to savor the feeling of being _okay._ Of being _fine._ Of being _calm, peaceful, tired, __human…_

Stop, stop, stop.

He's okay, now, isn't he?

He's has everything…everything, right?

Then why is he considering getting that pocketknife from the kitchen drawer again?

Not even in his own home he feels okay. Not calm, not peaceful, not _human._ He hates it. Despises it.

And it's now, where he really feels and senses and just _knows_ that he's going insane. He's falling, drifting, descending, reeling in, completely blanketed in that _wonderful _feeling of going mad - going crazy, a lunatic, a complete and total despicable being. That pocketknife is sounding delicious right now. Absolutely to die for.

He didn't always rely on his best friend - the pocketknife. Nope, not always. Recently, though, it's been his only refuge to safety. Well, he wouldn't necessarily call it _safety._ More like, what's the word…

_Home._

Refuge to _home._

The shine of the cold metal, the smell of copper in the air, floating, dancing around him and the whole house, and feel of the metal on his snow-white skin, the beautiful ooze of the red liquid flowing from his veins, it's - it's -

It's too much.

Just describing it is too wonderful, too pretty, too _safe._

Safe.

Home.

Calm.

Peace.

Again, too much. Lay off the words.

Sitting in his bedroom, he doesn't stop considering for a minute. Consider, consider, consider…

_What?_

**Should he do it?**

_Do what?_

**Grab the blade, relieve that stress that's building up inside him like an atomic bomb just waiting, **_**anticipating **_**to blow up?**

_What do you think?_

**I think? It's his decision. His body - his life.**

_He lives forever. Don't forget about that._

**Then yes, he should. More beautiful pictures and lines zigzagging all across his arms and chest. **

_Much, much more…he's truly beautiful, with all of that art on his arms and chest. Like roses covering a white, barren wasteland. _

**Much more beautiful than that. Too beautiful, in fact. He's selfish to be keeping all of that wonderfulness to himself. Selfish brat.**

_Indeed, you're right. Selfish, selfish, selfish…simply a child, a child still. Too young and selfish to understand._

No, no, he's a grown up.

A grown up that's going to create more art. Like they said, he is just a child. Forget growing up - he'd prefer to dream, to dream up everything, all things, his home, his friends, his _own little world full of wonders and calm and home and safety - _

When did he get to the kitchen drawer so fast?

Hearing that conversation tired him out. Just listening to those two talk constantly about him and his flaws and his beauty is too much. Too safe. And while he'd rather those two keep their mouths shut and just watch him make his own decisions, he realized that…he'd be _lonely._ Simply _lonely and hollow and empty, like a shell that's been cracked one too many times and now he's remembering the past and oh God, make it stop it hurts too much he's remembering his weaknesses and triumphs and all the above and all the rest and he's reaching for that blade at a fast pace now and God it still hurts, just shove that damn piece of metal inside already, and those two won't shut up with their relentless shouting and urging please God, make it go away, all away - _

Since when did he open up his arm?

No matter - the red color is flowing out at a slow and steady pace now, too slow for his taste. Faster, _more red color needs to be flowing out, and at a faster pace, right this instant! _

**Why don't you make the paint go out faster? You'll need much more paint for that canvas of yours. **

_Why not use _all_ of your paint? All of that wonderful and warm color inside? _

Why _doesn't _he? It sounds like an ideal plan to him. His neat, raven hair brushes his dull brown eyes as he reached for the pocketknife once again. When did he become so intent on causing harm to himself? He's not masochistic, is he? He feels nothing when he does this - simply safety. Safety and home and _wonderful and calm and __**human and peace and - **_

He's still normal.

Complete sanity.

Not falling, not drifting, nor descending, nor reeling into the madness that pocketknife brings him -

Nope, not at all.

So why does he continue to hack his wrists and arms?

This all hurts too much.

**Too late to realize that now, Kiku.**

Kiku.

Kiku.

_**KIKU.**_

That's his name, isn't it? He had a name - a birth name, a _real name, like a real human being, like a normal person does, like a calm and peaceful - _

He wasn't a human, was he?

Not if he could continue to do this, this art, for years and decades and _centuries_ to come.

No, not human. Not at all.

_Not normal. _

_Not regular, ordinary, average, natural, typical, orderly - _

_**Not human, not anything like one, not ever. Not beautiful, not pretty, not wonderful, not delicate, not appealing, not graceful - **_

_**Not human.**_

The thought and realization and _simple __**fact**_ drives him over the edge. Far past the edge, far past anything this world could ever imagine.

How do you know if you're going crazy?

Or how do you know when you've lost it all?

How do you know if you're on the brink of insanity? Suicide? Safety? _Home?_

As he thinks this over, he takes the time to notice he's lost all feeling in his right arm.

He risks losing what little sanity he has left and glances down at the masterpiece. His masterpiece. _His artwork that's deserving of a medal, honor, ribbon, any symbol of achievement for once in his lonely life he deserves something good, something well-deserved or something that he'll treasure for the rest of his life if he even has one after this - _

It's as if his left arm has a mind of it's own (or maybe they're controlling it) as it moves to hover over his chest. Wasting no time in drowning out the urges and the pleads and the calling of his name, he violently brings the metal refuge into his skin right above his heart.

Does he even have a heart?

Should he?

Does he even _deserve _one?

Of course he does. He's normal.

_In your dreams._

He's human.

_As if._

He has it all.

_Yet you have nothing._

I have you two.

Wait.

He - this man, Kiku - has the same voices. No, no no no. A coincidence. Nothing more.

**You're making it up. **

Am not.

**Everything. **

I have nothing. I have it all.

**Your perfect little dream world. **

I've yet to have any dreams - any real dreams that are worthy of conversation. And what world? This is the real world, the real time, the real happenings of the _real worl - _

**You've been narrating this whole time. **

Nonsense. This is _Kiku's story, not mine, I'm not Kiku, I'm Japan, I'm Japan, I'm - _

Japan.

Japan.

He wants it to stop.

I want it to stop.

I'm not Kiku Honda. Who is that? Who is that? _Who in hell is that? Why do I look like him? What connection do I have with him - why am I narrating his story for him? He looks like me, feels like, has the same scars as me - why?_

Suddenly he feels sick.

Sick that everything is happening so fast. Too fast, not safely, not like home, not peaceful, not calmly, not at all - 

**C'mon, the job's almost done. Look at all those roses on your chest - and your arms are the most beautiful part. Take a look, Kiku.**

_Japan, you too. You two are one in the same._

I'm not Kiku, he has my scars, he _stole_ them from me!

Who are you? Who am _I? Why is all of this happening so fast, so quickly?_

Then he really feels sick - like everything will come rushing out faster if he let it out.

**No - there's a better and much more pleasurable way.**

_Hack the answers out. _

I need to see the answers, the answers of who this Kiku is, who this Japan is, who they all are,_ it hurts too much and before he even knows it, he has the knife in his hand is creating all sorts of wonderful artworks with the pure white canvas and the rose petals keep falling down to the ground slowly and he senses the cold taking over his being and he just wants to invite that feeling in more, drive himself closer to the edge and welcome it with all sorts of -_

He can't breathe.

He can't feel anything.

He's holding himself up with his right arm - which regained feeling somewhat - and is trying to drive the piece of heavenly metal through his stomach when he sees the tears fall onto the floor. His? Since when did he cry? Or show any emotion beside pain and loneliness? 

_They aren't mine. Not mine. Not anyone's, they'll never be anyone's, never ever because everyone forgot about me a long time ago, never again will I fall for something like that - _

"K-Kiku?"

_Who __is that?_

"W-What…K-Kiku…why..? What h-happened?"

_**Who are you talking to? I'm not Kiku, I'm not anyone, I'm not Japan, I'm not suitable for anything but art - **_

"Oh, God."

Without even asking for permission, the other drops to the floor and just stares. Stares at the beautiful art showering the floor and the canvas. Rose petals litter the floor where the other is on his knees.

Why is he here?

Didn't he forget about me?

Didn't he hate me?

**He does. It's a trap.**

_Simple for a _child_ to fall into._

"W-Why are…J-Japan…" why is there water in his eyes? His brown eyes? Who said he could cry because of me? Did anyone say that?

_**And who is Japan?**_

"W-Who's J-Jap-pan?" he shakily asks, scooting away in fear. He knows he lying. He knows there's no Japan here, or any Kiku or anyone but him. The other's eyes grow wide as a pained expression covers and blankets his feminine features. 

"O-Oh, Japan…K-Kiku…you aren't here anym-more…" why is he saying that? Of course Kiku or Japan isn't here anymore. It's only me. Me me me me me! "You're g-going…to kill y-yourself, stop..!"

Then he realizes something.

_**He interrupted my art session.**_

"W-Who do y-you…think y-you are?" **Interrogate him. Scare him away. He can't be here. No one can. You're lonely. Forever. Never to be seen by anyone. You're just scared of everything. Close them all out. Close **_**him**_** out. You don't need him. **

The other watches him stand, knife still in hand. Trembling slightly, he eyes the sharp metal in his hand. "M-My p-pocket…k-knife…"

_Go on, Kiku, do it. He has the answers you crave._

Stop calling me Kiku! No Kiku! No Japan! Stop! Stop!

Suddenly fragile, he throws the knife across the room and drops down into a puddle of his paint. 

"_S-STOP! GET OUT! I'M NOT - NOT ANYONE!"_

It hurts. Where's home? Where's safety? Where's calm, peacefulness? Make the hurt stop, make it go away,_ I'm begging you, please make it stop, make it go away! It hurts, I don't want to remember anything, not Yao, not Alfred, not anyone! Not Feliciano, not Ludwig, not any wars! Not Japan, not anyone! I'm not Japan! I'm not Kiku! __**Leave me alone!**_

"Kiku."

_Who the hell is that!_

"Breathe. You're holding your breath."

**Liar. Don't listen.**

"Breathe."

He trembles with confusion. He clutches his head with pure frustration and need and he's trying to let out that breath that he's holding, but he simply _can't. It's too difficult._

_God, it hurts, make it go away, it hurts, please please please make me breathe, let me breathe, I'm going crazy, black is everywhere, black is going to eat me up I don't want to go yet, I want to go back with Yao and Feliciano and Alfred and Arthur and Ludwig and - _

_**You Are Japan.**_

I am Japan.

_**You Are Kiku Honda.**_

I am Kiku Honda.

A sharp intake of breath leaves his lungs wanting more. He lets go of his head and instead places his hands on the floor in desperate attempt to receive more air. He holds his chest, clutching and grabbing for dear life.

This is my story. You're no longer needed.

"Feeling better, aru?"

"_Hai. Arrigatou, _Yao-san. Thank you for your help, again."

* * *

_I suggest listening to "Tokyo" by Tatanka. It helped inspire me for this story._


End file.
